


Here be Dragons

by CanisMajor1234



Series: Of Wolves and Sheep [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Really just a few places where I had to stop and go "you okay buddy?", Some dark themes, Strangers to Lovers, but i think it still applies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8824882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: "The first thing that Remus does when he leaves the vault is track down a Hei-Gui.Okay, so maybe that’s not the first thing he does. The first thing he does is stumble his way to Megaton, asking everyone he meets if they’ve seen his dad. They say no, of course, because he offers no descriptors as to what his dad might look like, and everyone in Megaton knows that a Vault suit means trouble if they’re not careful. Then he gets sick because his stomach is not ready for the sheer amount of radiation in the water, gets sick again when the radiation in the food hits him harder than he thought it would in such low doses, and spends the night with Miss Moira Brown because he can barely scrape himself up off her couch to fend for himself."Remus Averys was not ready for the Capital Wastes. The Capital Wastes most certainly were not ready for him.





	1. Just Surfacer Things

_His vision, from the constantly passing bars,_  
 _has grown so weary that it cannot hold_  
 _anything else. It seems to him there are_  
 _a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world_.

_~"The Panther", Rainer Maria Rilke_

The first thing that Remus does when he leaves the vault is track down a Hei-Gui.

Okay, so maybe that’s not the first thing he does. The first thing he does is stumble his way to Megaton, asking everyone he meets if they’ve seen his dad. They say no, of course, because he offers no descriptors as to what his dad might look like, and everyone in Megaton knows that a Vault suit means trouble if they’re not careful. Then he gets sick because his stomach is not ready for the sheer amount of radiation in the water, gets sick again when the radiation in the food hits him harder than he thought it would in such low doses, and spends the night with Miss Moira Brown because he can barely scrape himself up off her couch to fend for himself.

So, maybe tracking down the Hei-Gui was a little ways down Remus’s list- like, ten or twelve, because he had to spend a couple days with Moira learning how to survive the wastes, then a few days putting that to practical use as he checks out the nearby Super-duper Mart for her. He kills his first raider on that outing, along with a handful more. On one hand, he feels accomplished, because he had never killed anything bigger than a radroach before leaving the Vault (Officer Mack doesn’t fucking count, and Remus has gotten pretty good at blocking that memory out altogether). On the other hand, Remus returns to Megaton with the information and supplies Moira needs and feeling absolutely disgusted with himself.

It’s not hard to sweet-talk Moriarty into letting him at that terminal the barman keeps in the back; Remus has always had a silver tongue and zero qualms about using it to get what he wants. It’s only been a week and a half, but Remus can already feel the rust in his joints from not using a keyboard in a while. He works it out quickly, but it’s still there, lingering between his bones. It’s not a feeling he enjoys. Remus realizes quickly, though, that it’s a feeling he’s just going to have to get used to, because it’s not like the Capital Wastes are teeming with terminals and enough power to keep them running.

Thankfully, there’s plenty to keep his fingers busy once he figures out where to look. The bomb in the middle of Megaton- an honest-to-God pre-War atomic bomb, with all its broken casing and chipped paint, and Remus can barely contain his excitement at the sight of it- needs disarming, and the mechanisms Remus pulls from it are simultaneously ingenious and incredibly simple. Sheriff Lucas gives him a house for his trouble, and with some parts that he bought from Moira on credit Remus starts on a computer to rival the piece of crap terminal that Moriarty seems to fucking proud of. When he’s not doing that, Remus is taking apart his 10mm, cleaning it, and putting it back together. He’s gotten pretty good at that.

He can’t stay in Megaton forever, though. Remus needs caps, he needs computer parts, he needs a fucking _Hei-Gui_ and a sniper rifle because he’s really starting to feel naked without them. Sooner than he’d like, it’s time to hunker down and get his shit together and get out into the Wastes. He’s got a laser pistol that’s held together mostly by electrical tape and half-broken parts and that’s honestly a bomb on a very, very long, unpredictable fuse. He doesn’t have enough ammo for his 10mm, though, so he swings the laser pistol onto his hip, kisses Moira on the cheek goodbye, and heads out.

The realization takes a couple days to hit, honestly. Remus is halfway to the marker he has on his Pip-boy (he jacked maps of the wasteland off the Overseer’s computer out of spite, not realizing how valuable they’d end up being) when the sudden weight of everything he’s learned lands on his back with the crushing force of a tonne of bricks. He falls to his knees in the dirt, chest heaving for air that’s just not reaching him. The merc that’s decided to stick along for the ride, Jericho, loses his shit too, and damn, they must make a pair. Crouching in the the dirt and radioactive dust, clinging to each other as they both try to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“This isn’t going to be a normal thing, right?” Jericho asks when it passes, his voice almost unreasonable shakey. They’re holding each other up as they stumble towards what is hopefully an empty farmhouse not too far away. “Because if it is, I don’t really think I’m the person who needs to be travelling with you. Like, seriously. I’m a good shot an’ everything, but I’m not cut out for all this emotional bullshit.”

Remus laughs, because he’s honestly not sure how he’s supposed to react to that kind of thing. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to react to anything at this point, because the world is suddenly a lot more fucked up then he thought it could ever possibly be. To think, this is what he was born and crafted from, born and crafted into. And if Dad had gotten his way, Remus never would have known. He would have lived out his life in the Vault, Vault 101, macking on Amata in the day and jacking off Butchie at night. Except nothing ever works out as planned, and instead Remus is staring at the sky while Jericho picks the lock, wondering at the clouds passing by (water that has condensed around dust particles in the atmosphere, more grey these days because there’s more dirt and irradiated particles up there than the kind of dust that makes fluffy white clouds) and the blue sky (light bending as it enters the Earth’s atmosphere, the waves of blue light being more thoroughly scattered than those of red light).

They make it to the VSS Facility late in the night, only because Jericho shoved a can of purified water and a Mentat down Remus’s throat as he recovered. He can feel the energy buzzing under his skin even as he talks to the Brotherhood Outcasts. It’s not nearly as powerful as the pre-War stuff that Remus has experienced in simulations, but the feeling is unmistakable. While pleasant, the buzz isn’t exactly something he wants to get used to.

It takes a Pip-Boy or similar genetically-encoded computer device with the VR operator software to work a VR machine- even the youngest dwellers of Vault 101 know that. That kind of sophisticated technology isn’t easy to come by on the surface world, apparently, so it isn’t so surprising that the Outcasts are having trouble getting this particular VR working. Remus must seem like some kind of a God-send to them, since he not only has the knowledge and means to work the system, but also knows exactly what’s in store for him on the other side of that bright white screen.

“You don’t have to do this for these guys, you know,” Jericho reminds him. “You don’t owe these shitbags anythin’. They don’t even know ya.”

“I need what’s beyond that door,” Remus explains vaguely, hauling himself into the pod and sinking into the foam. “It would take too long to reprogram my Pip-Boy for one of these guys, and I know how this simulation goes.” _It’s just a simulation_. “I promise, I’ll be fine.”

Jericho looks like he wants to protest, but Remus doesn’t give him the chance. The seal hisses as it does its work. There’s the slight sting as the hypodermic needle in Remus’s Pip-Boy extends to draw a blood sample. Remus tries to relax. No need to get tense, not yet.

_It’s just a simulation._

Remus always spent too much time in the VR pods as a kid. Ever since he was sixteen, the legal Vault age to enter a VR, he clocked all his allotted time in the machine and then some. “Self-destructive” didn’t even begin to describe his behavior for a while there; he rarely ate, and slept even less, surviving on a diet of caffeine and nutrient blocks. There were only two virtual realities that you could really trust to work all the way through when you were down there- Sanctuary Hills and Operation: Anchorage. You could access both at any time, of course, and even some of the ones that only ran half-through, but Anchorage? When you were eighteen, every kid saw Anchorage.

_It’s just a-_

_Bullet to the femoral artery. It will need to be cauterized, and soon, before he bled out all over the snow._

_“Jesus fuck! What if I lose my leg? What happens out there?”_

_Remus gave Butch a look that says “hold him” as he heats the tip of the knife with someone’s lighter. Paul screamed and trashed as Remus pressed the red-hot tip to the bullet wound. The kid got lucky; the bullet went clean through without any excess tearing of the flesh._

_It’s just-_

_Benji pushed him towards the sandbags with one hand, his other clenched firmly around his service rifle. Remus, with just his little 10mm and his bag stuffed full of medical supplies, was both the priority and the liability, and damn if he wasn’t aware of it. Not that his combat capabilities were in question: Butch was pinned down behind a sandbag wall with three injured. The plan had been if he couldn’t come to them, they’d just have to go to him._

_A missile soared over their heads. Benji threw him forward. The shout got lost in the roar of the explosion, but Remus got the gist of it: he had to keep going, keep pushing. One for the hoard._

_It’s-_

“ _You sure you want to do this, Remus?” Butch asked, reaching out until he touched the shimmer that was Remus’s shoulder. His fingers felt absurdly warm, even through cold and the fabric of the suit. Remus nodded furiously, then spoke when he realized that Butch couldn't see the motion._

_“I'm the only one the suit fits, and I've got the most experience with terminals and explosives.”_

_“There might be another way-”_

_“Not one that doesn’t risk all of us,” Remus said, thinking about Benji. It'd been a noble sacrifice. “One for the hoard, right? If I do this, no one else is at risk of being hurt.” Remus reached out to clasp Butch’s shoulder in return. “Trust me. I'll get this done.”_

_“Remus, wait-!”_

_It’s just-_

_The pulse field went down, and the soldiers in power armor rushed the compound. It would be a tough fight, Remus knew. He tucked himself in a convenient perch and set up. Hana taught him the basics of using a sniper rifle. He might as well use it. It caught a lot of the Chinese soldiers off guard, he could tell, the fact that the Americans had been able to set up a sharpshooter without them seeing. They hadn’t been expecting sniper on sniper engagement, and they pay for it: Remus takes down four of their snipers from his perch before he has to move again._

_Except he couldn’t. The simulation moved around him and the remaining Vault kids, but the guns train off of them. Then he saw it: the doors opening to reveal General Jingwei, with his infamous sword, standing over a prisoner and- fuck. Fuck that’s Hana, NO!_

_Butch rushed the General, but even his power armor probably wouldn’t last long against the infamous shock sword. Up close and personal, though, the General probably wouldn’t be watching for snipers, and Remus took advantage of it. His first shot flew far wide, hitting another red soldier in the chest. A second shot scraped Butch’s power armor. Remus cussed, reloading with shaking hands. He shouldered his rifle again, tried to steady his sights on the twisting and fighting form of the General. He couldn’t risk hitting Butchie again, not this time, not when he was aiming for the head._

_Tuck. Aim. Inhale to steady. Squeeze the trigger with the exhale and roll with the recoil._

_It’s just a-_

_“Congratulations, cadet.”_

_Remus stared at the form of General Chase, his heart beating rabbit-quick in his chest. Everything around them had stopped. Butch had staggered over to Remus’s side, the gash over his eye bleeding sluggishly. General Chase spoke at them, but also, somehow, through them; if they had tried to interrupt him, Remus was sure General Chase would have just talked over them._

_“You’ve completed the simulation and proven yourselves among the ranks of America’s finest.”_

_He has to lean heavily on Butch, but Remus beamed with pride. They did it. They made it to the end. Butch pressed a kiss to the top of Remus’s head. It looked like the smile was going to split his face._

_It’s just a simulation._

Remus gasps for air as the simulation releases him. He’s pushing his way out of the pod before it’s even entirely opened, trusting Jericho and the Outcast Knights to catch him should he not be able to hold himself up. The door opens quietly, subtly, with a whoosh of air two-hundred years stale. It smells like the Vault. It’s calming, for a moment, if Remus just closes his eyes and hides his face in Jericho’s jacket. The moment doesn’t last long, and Jericho gives him an odd look, but Remus comes away from it feeling more like himself. (That, and the mentat that Jericho might have slipped him might have helped.)

 _Hei-Gui_ . The fabric feels like plastic in Remus’s shaking hands. Everything about it is familiar, from the sheen of the black to the bright of the orange. Everything about it is _safe_. Remus doesn't even wait for anyone to turn around before he’s stripping out of his clothes. Jericho let's out a huffed groan (mostly for Remus’s sake) as he quickly averts his eyes. The armored Vault suit is placed in his bag with a certain amount of reverence. The stealth suit fits like a second skin, zipping up in the front and clipping behind the neck for ease of access. Remus could probably attach all the tubes of the stealth field by muscle memory. There aren't even lines from the undershirt and boxers Remus wears underneath; it's all smooth, armored in just the right places to ensure the lines of the suit are unbroken.

The helmet hisses as Remus engages it, blowing out dust so that the visor can slide easily. Jericho lets out a wolf-whistle of appreciation, and Remus smirks beneath his shield of orange: damn right he looks good. If nothing else, the Chinese had the aesthetic market cornered for experimental and espionage technology. Gun holster and backpack, and Remus feels lighter than he has since he left the Vault. For the first time, his pistol feels right in his hands.

Someone shouts. A gun goes off. Remus grabs Jericho’s shoulder for a brief moment- _“Trust me”_ \- before crouching. The stealth field engages with a whisper of moving air.

_This isn't a simulation._


	2. Chaotic Good

_"Not perfect, no, for what is perfection? But this I do know: being mechanical, I cannot sin, cannot be bribed, cannot be greedy or jealous or mean or small. I do not relish power for power's sake. Speed does not pull me to madness. Sex does not run me rampant through the world. I have time and more than time to collect the information I need around and about an ideal to keep it clean and whole and intact. Name the value you wish, tell me the Ideal you want and I can see and collect and remember the good that: will benefit you all. Tell me how you would like to be:_

_kind, loving, considerate, well-balanced, humane ... and let me run ahead on the path to explore those ways to be just that. In the darkness ahead, turn me as a lamp in all directions. I_ can _guide your feet."_

_~"I Sing the Body Electric", Ray Bradbury._

Remus had always kind of been Vault 101’s Chaotic Good. He could be a real good kid if he wanted to be, smiling and laughing and helping little old ladies. When he wasn't being good, though, Butch and Remus were absolute hellions. They never did anything to endanger any lives, of course, but the two of them got along like particularly combative peas in a particularly small pod; they fought as much as they got along, if not more, and half the pranks they pulled were on each other rather than unsuspecting Vault residents.

(When they did band together, though, they were a pair of imps straight from hell.)

Out on the Wastes, though, Remus is starting to feel a lot like a Lawful Good. Megaton, Arefu, GNR: it seems like there isn’t a place that doesn’t need some kind of help. Remus doesn’t turn them away, of course, he’s not heartless. He does wonder, sometimes, if he’s becoming more and more of a doormat, letting these people walk all over him. If he’s lucky, he’ll get a gruff “thank you” for the effort he puts out. For the most part, though, Remus gets his caps and nothing more. 

He keeps at it, though. Keeps helping people. It gives him something to do, something to keep his focus off the thoughts that keep bouncing around in his head. If he's not careful, he'll start thinking about Dad, and then Mom, and the Vault 101, and then he'll want to start screaming at the sky like it's the fault of the great blue expanse that everything's gone to shit. Really, the sky is just a byproduct, just like radioactive-tainted water and 200 year old Salisbury steak. And it's really not his fault, or Dad’s or Mom’s, or even Overseer Almodovar’s. They're all just byproducts of the world as it is.  _ He’s  _ just a byproduct of the world as it is. And he supposes nothing's really going to change that. 

Being underground helps. The subway tunnels, dark and dank and dangerous as they are, at least have a ceiling he can measure and walls he can touch and electricity humming the the wires all around. He nabs a sniper rifle in Minefield, a scoped 44 in Meresti, and suddenly he's the kind of shadow everyone fears. He's the kind of shadow no one fucks with. And it's nice. For a little while.

It gets lonely, though, out on the Wastes. Jericho stops travelling with Remus after a few weeks. “Can’t fucking keep up with you in a fight,” the merc- ex-raider- growls around a cigarette outside of Craterside Supply. “And I have a heart attack every time ya pull your little disappearin’ act. It’s fine every once in awhile, but every day? You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me.”

So Remus goes it alone. Well, there was Dogmeat for a little while there. Stimpacks don’t work as well on animals as they do on humans, though, so eventually Remus had to leave the pup with Moira to make sure nothing happened to the girl- either of the girls, really, Dogmeat is a fucking huge guard dog. Remus handles the loneliness about as well as he expected; which is to say, fine so long as he’s out and about travelling, but once he hits a settlement he has to make a beeline for the bar and spend some time with some people. 

(Remus finds out quick, though, that he’s not too good with alcohol. Thank goodness Vera Weatherly has mothering instincts, because that first hangover was absolute horror. He decides right then and there, leaning over the toilet with the innkeeper holding back his hair, that maybe it’s better if he just  _ doesn’t _ .)

Doctor Madison Li is about how Remus expected her to be from all the talk around Rivet City: gruff, cold, beautiful. She doesn’t like talking about James, but her lips loosen a bit when Remus explains what exactly happened. There’s some kind of grudge between the her and James, Remus can tell, and it’s something that goes deeper than professional competition and the fact that Remus’s dad married her sister. Li doesn’t begrudge Remus, though, and on the off moment she isn’t working she is more than willing to talk science with him; not a great engineer, that woman, but she’s definitely well-read and sharp enough to keep up with him. Her sarcasm is just biting enough to make Remus grin.

“You’re the child I would have wanted, had I married James,” she says one day as they’re pouring over the notes James left behind at the Jefferson Memorial. She has her back turned to Remus, her eyes on the terminal before her and her voice soft in the heavy, humid air. “I’m glad you’re not my child, though. I don’t think any other combination than your father and your mother would have made someone like you.”

Remus thinks about those words a lot on his way to the Museum of History. He doesn’t have anything else to think about, really, since the Brotherhood has picked up patrols from GNR to the Washington Memorial to Rivet City. But it hits him somewhere in Anacostia Crossing that he doesn’t even know what his mother looked like. Karen Li was her maiden name, but Remus only knows that because his dad talked about her all the time. Apparently Remus looked like her. And that explains a lot, since Remus doesn’t even look like any of the other families in the Vault, and he can’t remember anyone other than his dad ever mentioning the name “Li”. But at the time, Remus had just been confused- he’s stood in front of the mirror one time for three hours when he was fifteen, trying to figure out how his features might look on a woman. He didn’t get very far. 

Scrap metal jangles in Remus’s pack as he shifts it. It gets hot in the day in the Capital summer, and Remus feels tacky and gross beneath his stealth-suit. The Mall might have been a beautiful place to spend the summer before the War, but these days it’s dangerous to linger too long out in the open: there’s a careful balance between the supermutants and the Brotherhood in the D.C. ruins, and it doesn’t take much to tip it one way or the other. Remus keeps a hand on his 10mm and an eye out at all times. 

Willow greets Remus with a smile and a “hey, Tourist.” Her deep, gentle rumble of a voice is one that’s quickly become familiar, comforting. Remus is not ashamed to admit that ghouls once scared the fuck out of him, and ferals are absolutely disgusting. Willow and the ghouls of Underworld, though? Most of them are alright.

Emphasis on “most of them”. 

Confidence is key- Remus has already haggled Ahzrukhal down to a thousand caps to buy the stoic bodyguard off of him, now he’s just got to follow through. The thought of owning a slave turns his stomach, but it’s better than leaving the poor man to the mercy of this asshole. Remus can feel eyes following him with interest as he approaches the counter. The Lone Wanderer in his stealth suit, come to deal with Ahzrukhal. He wonders what kind of story they’ll tell about this.

A thousand caps whisked into a safe in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a seemingly plain contract. It’s clearly passed through a hundred hands, the paper worn and creased, the edges tattered and the corners torn. Remus is already thinking of a hundred different ways to store it so that no more harm comes to it. This is Charon’s life and livelihood in his hands, after all. For now, though, he carefully folds the contract and slips it between the pages of the book he carries in his pack ( _ The Princess Bride _ \- it’s a classic). 

Charon finally meets Remus’s eyes as the Lone Wanderer approaches and- fuck, okay, this guy is big. Not just tall, but  _ muscled _ in a way that Remus has never seen before on a ghoul. He’s easily got a foot and fifty pounds on Remus, and it’s all corded muscle and creased skin and cold stoicism. “You’re my new boss, then?” he rumbles, taking Remus’s hand when he offers it. He nods at Remus’s introduction. There’s a glint of recognition in his dark eyes as he rakes them over the Hei-Gui, but just like that he’s stepping past Remus and towards the counter, unholstering his shotgun as he goes.

Shotguns tend to be messy weapons, spraying blood and bits all over the place and generally being the loudest and least subtle way to kill a person. Still, though, Remus can admire their efficiency. Two shells are overkill, because the first one that went through Ahzrukhal’s stomach probably killed the ghoul right then and there, but Remus can’t blame Charon for wanting to be sure the asshole was dead. Considering the kind of man Ahzrukhal tried to be with Remus, the Lone Wanderer wouldn’t be surprised if he was an even worse person to someone who couldn’t even fight back. 

Stepping out of the Museum of History and into the bright Wasteland sun, Remus stretches his sore muscles and listens to his bones crack in the process: carrying all that scrap metal really did a number on his back, but the weight of ten stimpacks now tucked in the place of the scrap metal really does make Remus feel safer. At least he won’t have to worry about spending caps on those for a while now, especially since he pretty much just sank his 401k in the ghoul standing patiently behind him. Speaking of…

“Anywhere you need to be going?” Remus asks, taking a page from Jericho’s book and keeping a serious question light and easy. He doesn’t know the last time Charon was allowed to make a choice for himself, doesn’t really want to think about it, but that’s the past and the past ends here. Silence is the only answer Remus receives, but he’s not deterred: maybe Charon just needs some time. He leaves the offer hanging, though. Just in case. 

They head towards Megaton, because Remus has some more information for the Wasteland Survival Guide and also because he just wants a fucking shower. It takes a day and a half, because the subway tunnels that way have already been re-infested in Remus’s absence. It’s so  _ easy _ , though, fighting next to Charon. The ghoul seems to know how to move around a cloaked warrior. He doesn’t freak out when Remus disappears, just makes himself loud and big and a purposefully obvious target for raiders and ferals and supermutants and leaving plenty of room for Remus to pick off enemies with quick, accurate shots. Remus hasn’t felt this safe in a fight since he fought alongside Butchie at Anchorage. 

Remus gives Charon the largest and by far the most comfortable room on the second floor, partially because there isn’t actually another bedroom in the house and partially because Remus never actually uses the room except to crash on the (extremely comfortable) couch. It also conveniently sits right between Remus’s room and the room Wadsworth uses to go into sleep mode at night, so if anyone ever needs anything they’re all right there. Charon stands in the middle of the room for a long moment looking… confused? Conflicted. Until Remus urges (careful to ensure that it’s not an order) him to put his stuff down and make himself comfortable. 

“Just have to see Moira, I’ll be right back!” Remus calls from the doorway. And really he does kind of need to see Moira urgently, because he’s three days behind on his meds and the constant, low-buzzing anxiety in the back of his head it really making it hard to think. It’s annoying, for one, and also extremely stressful, and Remus is tired of losing sleep over it. 

_ “You… never actually knew what you were taking?” _

_ Remus bounces his heels off the bottom of the workbench and hangs his head, eyes on the empty foil packet in his hands. The other one had gone to Moira for analysis and- hopefully- replication. What used to be a once or twice a month thing in the Vault was quickly becoming an every-couple-days thing, and he could really use a rest. _

_ “No,” he admits more than a little bashfully. His dad was a doctor, for fuck’s sake! He’d been around medication and medical books all the time. It really wouldn't have been hard for him to look it up. He knew what he needed to know at that age, Remus supposed, that the medication slowed him down for a couple hours and that he shouldn't give it to anyone else.  _

_ Moira rattles a repurposed Rad-X bottle before placing it in Remus’s hands. He’d never seen her so serious. “This is a benzodiazepine. Specifically, alprazolam. I think the colloquial Old World term for it was Xanax? Anyway, that doesn't matter. What matters is that this is supposed to help you by reducing abnormal electrical activity in your head that might be aggravating your anxiety. You aren't to take more than a normal dose in a day, no matter how bad it gets, and you are  _ never _ to take these with alcohol. Understand?” _

_ Humans are machines, Remus reminds himself as he rolls the bottle between his hands. Machines malfunction all the time. There’s no shame in taking a few pills to stop the malfunction. He nods, then lets Moira pull him into a crushing hug. She cares enough to want to help him beat his malfunction, and that's really more than he could have hoped for.  _

The Wasteland Survival Guide is almost done, sitting open on Moira’s terminal when Remus enters, cursor flashing at the end of a half-finished sentence. The part about the library. Huh. It looks good so far. After that is the part about Rivet City, which Remus has the data for in his Pip-Boy, and then the robotics part that Moira has been tearing her hair out over since they finished chapter two. Remus doesn't blame her: explaining the intricacies of robotics in layman’s terms isn't exactly easy. 

“I could write that part for you,” Remus offers. He’s sitting on the edge of her desk, chewing on a piece of bubblegum while he waits for her to finish uploading the notes and files on his Pip-Boy onto her terminal. He smiles at her surprised look, blowing a bubble and letting it pop. “The robotics part. I mean, I'm practically a robot whisperer over here. Who better to write that part?”

Moira smiles her familiar, bright smile, and Remus can  _ see _ the lines of stress fall from her face. “So long as it's not all in zeroes and ones,” she jokes, disconnecting from Remus’s Pip-Boy, “I suppose I don't mind if you write that part. And what kind of co-author would I be if I didn't let you write the part you're best at?” 

When he made that offer, Remus really hadn't been thinking how hard it would actually be. There is just  _ so much _ that needs to be said about robots and robotics, but he wants to try and match the length of the other sections so that the book doesn't feel imbalanced. And that’s on top of Remus’s innate difficulty with wording his thoughts (it's why he likes Li and Moira so much- he talks, and they understand). He doesn't know how long he sits in his chair staring at a blank document, but it's long enough for Charon to have finished cleaning his shotgun and fallen asleep on the couch beneath the stairs and for Wadsworth to have powered down for the night. Most of the lights are off, so the house is only illuminated by Remus's monitor and…

And the green light of Harkness’s plasma rifle, sitting on the workbench where Remus has been trying to replace worn parts. Suddenly Remus remembers the Courser chip in his pocket. He remembers Harkness's pained howl when Remus issued the recall code. He remembers luring Zimmer out of Rivet City with false promises, only to take of the scientist's head from 700 yards with a single, beautiful shot. He remembers S3-47 walking onwards like the death of Zimmer hadn’t even registered to him. And suddenly Remus knows what he’s going to write.

_ “... And to end this section, I want to say a few words of my own. I've always believed that adaptation and evolution within machines exists. Given 200 years and the spaghetti-like code some of these machines are written with, it shouldn't be surprising that some of them now exist in a wildly different state than they did when they were first created. And some of them have realized that living their possibly endless lives as a slave to the meaningless tasks they were programmed for is not what they want. And that’s okay. Self-determination is never a malfunction.  _

_ So live and let live. Don't take pot-shots at robots for fun, don’t bother them unless they’re bothering you, and, maybe most of all, don't be a dick.” _


	3. Priorities

_ Montag had done nothing. His hand had done it all, his hand, with a brain of its own, with a conscience and curiosity in each trembling finger, had turned thief. Now it plunged the book under his arm, pressed tight to sweating armpit, rushed out empty, with a magician's flourish! Look here! Innocent! Look! _

_ ~"Fahrenheit 451", Ray Bradbury. _

“Charon?”

“Hmm?”

“If I promise you the next box of Fancy Lad snack cakes, will you spare one of your grenades to chuck at that awning over there?”

“Fancy Lad snack cakes are hardly worth the price of a grenade on the current market.”

Remus huffs, pulling back from his scope for a moment to push his hair out of his face- it’s getting long, and he really should cut it, but he doesn't want to. “I know that. But I also know how much you like snack cakes, and I know that you know how much I love snack cakes, and I'm offering you  _ the whole box _ without a fight.”

Charon might have the poker face of a master, but Remus can see the smile trying to tug at the ghoul’s cheeks. It's a long thrown to the awning, but he really doesn't have to make it  _ that _ far. Remus just needs something to cover his first shot- something like, hmm. A fragmentation grenade?

Boom. Big-badda-boom. Remus takes off the head of the slaver leader at the same time as the explosion goes off. He mourns the loss of the perfectly good Nuka-Cola machine caught in the blast radius for a moment before the raiders catch on to where he’s perched and he has to get ready to get shot at. Thankfully, he and Charon are high up and hard to get at, and Charon is not a bad shot with a .44 magnum in his hands. Together, they can pretty much clear Paradise Falls with an almost ridiculous amount of ease. It's almost disgusting, really, how easy it is to kill a dozen people. When Remus sees the kids with the bomb collars, though, he finds he doesn’t really feel too guilty. 

Paradise Falls to Arefu to Megaton. From the maps and Remus’s own knowledge of the area, it’s supposed to be the safest route home. The road between Arefu and Megaton is used a lot by traders needing to get to the northern settlements because there’s a highway that runs that way, as cracked and broken and occasionally non-existent the pavement is these days. Remus rolls his shoulders under his armor and tries to keep his feet out of the many potholes. His mind is on how he might talk Jenny into bringing down the price of a box of snack cakes when he hears the growl.

Remus rolls fast, stealth field humming into place around him, but Charon is larger and bulkier and slower. The charging deathclaw catches him as he twists to the side, one clawed paw scraping for his ribs, the other going for his head. Thankfully it’s a young thing, small enough to be just under Charon’s height, but that doesn’t mean they’re in any less danger. Remus abandons his guns and draws the combat knife from his boot: his .44 is too slow, and his 10mm will barely do anything against deathclaw hide, but a good sharp knife in the right spots should do the trick if he’s fast enough. The problem is being fast enough, because Charon is bleeding pretty badly under his ribs and even with the bones in one of its hands broken the deathclaw is still pissed and aggressive as hell.

The deathclaw tries to lunge again after Charon throws it off, but Remus is already there at its heels, knife digging into the tendons of it’s right calf. The cut is clean. When the deathclaw tries to whirl on Remus’s shimmering form, its leg goes out from under it. There’s a moment of flailing and howling as Remus tries to scramble away, the deathclaw’s claws catching his thigh right above the knee as he goes. Then Charon is there with his shotgun- two shots, and the Wastes are quiet again. 

Blood rushes from Remus’s head as he stands, leaving him dizzy but thankfully upright. His thigh is bleeding sluggishly, but they’ve only got one stimpack left between Remus and Charon, and Charon’s injury is much more serious. The closest safe place to rest is back, towards Arefu, but Remus isn’t entirely sure they’ll make it that far. He can see the skeleton of a half-collapsed barn over the next hill, though. 

“Let me see,” Remus murmurs as he helps Charon lower himself to the floor. Charon’s combat armor is torn pretty badly and the wounds are full or dirt and whatever shit was on the deathclaw’s claws. Remus has no idea if ghoul’s wounds can become septic, but he doesn’t want to take the chance. 

“You’re hurt,” Charon grumbles as Remus digs out a dose of Med-X, a bottle of vodka, the stimpack, and an old shirt they can tear up for bandages. Stupid, not to carry extra rolls, but it completely slipped Remus’s mind last time they were in Megaton. It’s been so long since they’ve gotten into a fight that’s given them any real trouble, and they’ve gotten cocky.

“Not as bad as you are.” Remus tips Charon a bit to the side to administer the dose of Med-X right above where the skin is torn. He doesn’t know how much it will do for the ghoul, especially one of Charon’s size, but it’s better than making him bear the next part with no medicine at all. While it takes effect, Remus tears the shirt into strips. “Tell me if you need another dose,” the Lone Wanderer instructs, wetting one of the strips with the vodka. This is going to hurt- there’s no way around that. 

The ghoul is almost eerily quiet as Remus cleans his wound, dark and foggy eyes on the patch of blood on Remus’s leg that’s quickly becoming crusty and stiff. The suit will be difficult to patch, sure, but Remus has some liquid stitch and some extra leather that should hopefully do the job. It’s really just aesthetic damage- all of the wires are completely intact. 

“You’re hurt,” Charon grumbles again, more slurred this time, as Remus administers the stimpack into the ghoul’s leg- right next to the femoral artery, so that it’s quick to flood Charon’s system and begin the healing process. Emergency medical treatment was never something Remus thought important in the Vault, but he’s now glad that he’d paid attention. He hisses when Charon passes a hand just above the injury on Remus’s leg. “You’re  _ hurt _ .”

“It’s not even bleeding anymore, Charon,” Remus assures. He sits down properly in front of Charon, sets about washing where the ghoul can see. “I’m fine, I promise. You can rest.” 

Remus starts a fire while Charon rests, bandaging his own injury with shaking hands and fixing a quick meal of instant noodles and dried brahmin meat. Summer is turning into autumn in the Wastes, the nights getting longer and colder, and Remus is really starting to feel it. He never thought he’d miss the heat and humidity, but he’s pretty certain anything’s better than the way the wind cuts like a hundred sharp knives and the way he can never quite feel the tips of his fingers. It reminds him too much of Anchorage. That feeling will only get worse as the first snows start hitting in December, he supposes. There’s nothing else he can do but huddle down in his coat and baggy pants as he tries make a patch for his Hei-Gui that will at least last the journey home. 

They make it to Megaton noon the next day, after an unreasonably long walk that consisted mostly of Remus and Charon leaning on each other for support as they skirted empty molerat nests and buildings where raiders liked to gather. Remus’s leg is sore, the cut starting to sting, but he makes sure Charon is safe with Doc Church before stumbling his way up to Moira’s and crashing on her couch. She cooes and whines as she stitches up his leg, asking all sorts of questions about when and where and how and why as Jericho leans against the armrest at Remus’s feet, swirling a Nuka-Cola and smirking. The wound hasn’t gone bad, but it was never pretty in the first place: apparently some muscle was cut that Remus was not aware of. It’s the kind of damage that  _ should _ put him on his back for a couple of days, which he would normally bitch and moan about, but Jericho kindly (i.e. teasingly and suggestively) reminds Remus that Charon will still be wiped out until those wounds on heal and hey, bedrest doesn’t have to be  _ all _ boring and bad, right?

Moira gives Jericho a pointed look and reminds him that if they tear her stitches, they can take it to Doc Church, because she doesn’t want to hear about it. Also, that informed consent can only be made when both parties are sober, which Remus definitely is not at the moment; it’s a testament to the fact that he and Med-X have never really agreed that just her saying that sets him off in a fit of half-hysterical giggles. Anything more complicated than laying there and staring at the ceiling is definitely a no-go. Not that Remus doesn’t try. He wants to go check on Charon, but standing results in him almost collapsing into a little puddle of Vault kid on the floor, and after than Jericho and Moira confine him to the couch. If Charon were better already, they reason with him, the ghoul would come up and check on Remus himself. It seemingly does the trick, and Remus falls into dreamless, drugged sleep.

He wakes up feeling like he just went three rounds with a Yao-Guai, and lost every one to boot. His leg hurts like hell- how did he ignore that again? Moira is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a can of water and a couple painkillers on the little table by the couch that Remus accepts gratefully. He checks his Pip-Boy as he waits for them to take affect. 2:43 a.m. No wonder Moira is nowhere to be seen, she’s probably upstairs sleeping. Remus scrounges a hundred caps out of his bag and leaves them on the counter before digging around for some food. Fuck, he hates Med-X. It works in pinch, sure, but if he never had to have another dose in his life Remus would be a happy, happy man. 

Reaching for a can of beans on the top shelf, Remus pauses when his hand bumps the edge of a cardboard box. Fancy Lad snack cakes. He smiles as he tucks the box under his arm, snatching the can of beans and another can of water before abandoning the shelf. It’s another twenty caps for a box of treats he’s not even going to be able to enjoy, but it’s definitely worth it. Besides, it's not like he doesn't have plenty of caps from the Survival Guide sales.

Even in the Vault, Remus hated just sitting down and eating. There was always too much to do, too much to see, too much going on. If he ate in the cafeteria, it was over a book or (and) talking to Butchie. A lot of the times, though, he took his meal to wherever he was working and snagged bites in the moments he wasn’t too busy. There was more than one incident of him turning to eat only to find that someone else (Dad or Jonas) had eaten it. He just shrugged it off and went back to work. 

Sitting on the bar and munching on his pork and beans, Remus finds himself with nothing else to do. He’s bored, and feeling more than a little cooped up. Normally he would tap his foot, but he knows that would hurt, and his hands are a bit busy with the whole eating thing. He could play games on his Pip-Boy, but that circles back to the whole eating thing and the fact that once he starts playing, he might not finish the can. He sighs and resigns himself to tapping his spoon against the edge of the can and letting his thoughts wander.

He needs to check back with Doctor Li about the data from the Jefferson Memorial. The safe way would be to go around the Citadel, then cut to the shore and follow it to Rivet City. They’d have to fight mirelurks, but they wouldn't have to go through too much supermutant territory. Remus wants to visit the Arlington Cemetery, though. It takes him right through the D.C. ruins and the heart of supermutant territory, but it's about time he laid that particular demon to rest. 

None of this, of course, can be done until he and Charon are healed. Remus sighs again, sticking his spoon in what's left of the pork and beans. Now he's thinking about Arlington and Anchorage and it’s ruined his appetite. He wonders if it will still be good if he sets it aside for later, then wrinkles his nose in disgust: ew, no, he has no desire to have a repeat of pork-and-bean mache. Shit sticks worse than wonderglue. Might as well finish it before it gets to that point, then, Remus supposes. His body is probably starving for nutrients anyway. 

So, check on Charon in the morning, inform the ghoul of the plan, maybe drop off the snack cakes. If Charon is doing well, they can stagger their way back to Remus’s house and Remus can work on edition two of his chapter of the Wasteland Survival Guide- he wants to include something about the benefits, dangers, and limits of hacking this time.

If Doc Church wants to keep Charon in bed for a little while longer, though, Remus might just take Jericho up on that offer. He feels like he’s about ready to crawl out of his skin, and having a private room in a private house is so much easier than trying to find a moment when the Commonroom is empty. 

(They’ve tried. Turns out, Remus is not much of an exhibitionist.)


	4. Demons

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_   
_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_   
_Memory and desire, stirring_   
_Dull roots with spring rain._   
_Winter kept us warm, covering_   
_Earth in forgetful snow, feeding_   
_A little life with dried tubers._

~ _"The Wasteland", T.S. Eliot._

Nuka-Cola and a splash of rum from the top shelf- it’s not enough to get Remus drunk, but he does enjoy the taste every once in awhile. Besides, he and Gob are good enough friends to talk over the rim of a glass and the squeaking of a rag against a dirty cup. Remus might hate Moriarty, but he has to admit that the bar is pretty nice. Between the drinks and Gob and Nora, Remus can even ignore the lecherous look that Moriarty gives him from the back room.

A calloused hand against the back of the neck. A gentle kiss to the temple, lips lingering for a moment before moving on. Remus sighs. Jericho. The two of them are friends. Nothing more. What they do is platonic, and it’s a relationship that works well for the both of them: Jericho needs a warm body he can trust, and Remus… sometimes he just needs someone to look out for him.

Amata had been Remus’s best friend in the Vault. The Overseer had approved, of course, because procreation was the name of the game with Vault relationships, and Overseer Almodovar wanted only the best possible match for his daughter. Remus had been smart, kind, inventive, and all in all exactly the kind of person Almodovar had been looking for. Perfect except for one important caveat: Remus honestly couldn't have cared less for girls.

Girls were pretty, of course. Remus could appreciate beauty when he saw it. But when it came to what his personally wanted, it was less of a matter of bouncing breasts and wide thighs and more of a matter of prickly stubble against his cheek and the feeling of being boxed in by someone bigger, someone stronger and sure. And dick. Remus _really_ liked dick. Benji was a respite, a haven in the storm of war, but Butch? Butchie was a fucking revelation.

_“It’s alright, you know,” Amata had said once, letting Remus rest his head on her shoulder. They were huddled together in one of the empty rooms in the Vault, one that hadn’t seen a resident in too many years. It was Remus’s hiding place, where he went to escape the light and the noise of people. “What you are. It’s alright. I know my dad is kind of… old-fashioned, but if it makes you happy, I have no problem with who you are and who you love. And I’m here for you, alright? Because that’s what friends are for. To cover for you when the going gets rough.” She laughed, all bright and happy, and Remus couldn’t help but smile a bit too._

_“And if it makes you feel any better,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes, “Butchie’s been staring at your ass too.”_

For all Jericho seems like a right bastard, the ex-raider is a surprisingly generous lover. Remus arches under calloused hands, the curve of his spine exaggerated by sharp bone and straining muscle. Even in the Vault, Remus’s muscle had never been padded by much fat, and the Wastes have burnt off anything that might have been left, leaving whipcord strength that is excellent for quick engages but falters under drawn-out battles. Endurance is something Remus knows he needs to work on, but it’s the kind of thing that takes time and effort that Remus would rather spend elsewhere.

A sharp bite on the crest of his hip brings Remus back into the moment with a gasp. Pain blooms brilliant and quick, like a gunpowder flash, leaving tingling and singing nerves in its wake. Remus feels his blunt nails catch on scars criss-crossing Jericho’s shoulders, revels in the catch of the older man’s breath. Neither of them will have any marks in the morning, but they will both definitely be feeling it: Remus is not near stretched enough when Jericho fucks forward into him, slowly, letting them both bask in the feeling. It burns, but in the best of ways. The groan that slips past Remus’s lips makes him flush bright red.

“Never been shy before,” Jericho growls. The kiss he presses into the dip beneath Remus’s jaw has the edge of teeth to it. “What, afraid someone’s goin’ to hear ya?”

Remus grits out a curse between his teeth, crossing his ankles behind Jericho’s back and tensing just to spite the man. The motion makes his whine high in his throat, makes Jericho growl and jerk. They bring out the worst in each other, Jericho and Remus. It’s why their relationship works.

Paper hisses and curls as Jericho lights a cigarette. Remus takes a deep breath and sighs; he doesn't smoke, no, but he enjoys the smell. It used to hang on Butchie’s clothes all the time, that and hair product, though Remus doubts he’ll ever find a nice can of pomade on the surface. Not that he needs it with how long his hair is. Butch would throw a fit if he ever saw it.

“Guess this’ll be the last time, huh,” Jericho says. He’s got a tattoo high on his right shoulder, some kind of simple wolf motif done up in black ink. It’s old and faded, but the workmanship is impressive. Remus lets out a little noise of assent, reaching out to trace the lines with the tips of his fingers.

Jericho tosses a wry smile over his shoulder. “You really love that old ghoul, don't you?” he asks, and Remus doesn't really have an answer.

Almost seven months of living in the Capital Wastes, and Remus had never seen it rain.

He supposes that it’s fitting, visiting a cemetery in the rain, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. Rain makes things damp, makes things feel colder than they actually are. The material of the Hei-Gui is waterproof, sure, but somehow there are still places for water to seep through. Even with his coat on, by the time they make it to the cemetery, Remus is soaked to the bone.

It’s… not what he expected. Remus isn’t sure what he was expecting when he decided to some here, but for some reason the scene in front of him doesn’t quite fit. Maybe he expected it to still be upkept. Maybe he expected the radiation, the ghouls, the bombs dropped two hundred years ago and the fighting that’s occurred since to have spared this place. Nothing stops the progression of time, though. Pavilions collapse in on themselves. Weeds grow rampant. The wind and dust wear down the names on the stones.

Remus remembers, though. He starts at the unfinished row of marble blocks, the newest names, and works backwards. Every name that he recognizes he passes a hand over, tries to remember as much as he can about them. At least, the forms of them he saw in the simulation. He doesn't know if it was accurate, if there are names he doesn't remember, if this even matters. It probably doesn’t, in the long run. These people have been dead for two and a half centuries. Even if the spirits had lingered after death, they’d no doubt be long gone by now.

Benjamin Montgomery. Honestly, Remus hadn’t thought he was a real person for a while there. But there’s his name, date of birth, date of death. Someone’s come by recently and left a bundle of wildflowers and weeds. Remus’s chest chokes up- he didn’t bring anything. He didn’t think to bring anything. He didn’t… didn’t _think_ , honestly. He just needed… He doesn’t know. He just needed to confirm that what he remembered was real, he supposes. What he experienced was a simulation, sure, but the people he had fought beside, the people he had fought? They had been real. Remus lays a hand on the top of the tombstone. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he should say anything at all.

“I was a soldier,” Remus says as they walk out of the cemetery. Again, he doesn’t know why he does it. He just feels that he owes Charon an explanation as to why they’ve come here. “Benji- Gunnery Sergeant Montgomery. He was the second-highest ranking officer in my unit. We fought at Anchorage. Against the Chinese. He…” _He died for me._ Remus feels his breath catch in his chest. Benji died for someone there. Maybe not necessarily for Remus, but maybe for the character Remus was supposed to be playing. The nurse. The spy. The sniper. Benji died for them, but it _feels_ like Benji had died for him, and that hurt just as much. It _feels_ like they had known each other and- oh. Maybe that was the reason for the simulation after all. Comradery. Understanding loss, and the price of your mistakes. Had Benji died because of Remus’s mistake?

A gnarled hand rests on Remus’s shoulder. Charon’s expression is one of sympathetic understanding. Charon might not have been a soldier, might not remember if he ever was, but he _understands_. Remus nods and slides his visor back in place. Now is not the time or the place. Night is falling, and they need to find a place to sleep for the night that isn’t chock full of ferals or supermutants. Only idiots try to traverse the D.C. ruins after the sun goes down.

The building they find certainly looks empty enough, with the windows busted out and the lights off inside. There’s a small office on the bottom floor that they claim for the night, barricading the door with the twisted metal desk and making sure the boards on the window were secure. Apparently this wasn’t the first time the room had been used as a camp: there were empty cans and loose ammo strewn about the floor among the trash and debris. Remus rolls out his bedroll in the back corner and lies with his back to the wall, pistol under his pillow and helmet where he can easily get to it. He’s not hungry, not really. Just tired and… empty. Like he needs a little time to recharge. He can hear the shuffling as Charon rolls out a bedroll beside him, the ting as the ghoul drops a can of pork and beans next to his head. Remus needs to eat, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to, and Charon won’t force him.

It's still dark when Remus’s eyes snap open. There are voices outside the door, deep and guttural as their Mandarin spills over Remus’s ears. Charon is crouched beside him, shotgun ready, and hands Remus the helmet without being asked. The HUD gives the Wanderer an infrared view of the room. Remus reaches over to tap a message onto Charon’s thigh: his Morse code is rusty, but he hopes Charon understands. _Ferals?_

Charon taps back _no_ on the back of Remus’s hand. No, of course they wouldn't be ferals- if they were, speech would be impossible, because higher thinking skills are the first to go. Remus places a hand on Charon’s shoulder- _Trust me_ \- before standing from his crouch and moving towards the door.

Hei-Gui were not given to just anyone in the Chinese Special Forces: they were earned. Only the best were gifted the stealth suit, and even then only after proving themselves time and time again. Hei-Gui were a sign of status, of skill and experience, and those who wore them were often considered demons in the flesh. Remus is counting on these ghouls being old or traditional enough to remember that when he steps out of the office. They start, raising their assault rifles, and it takes all of Remus’s self-control not to show any fear.

“ _What are you doing here?”_ one of them barks. Remus doesn’t acknowledge him, instead choosing to make certain the sniper rifle is snug against his back. “ _Who are you?_ ”

“ _I do not remember addressing you,_ ” Remus shoots back, trying to make his Mandarin clean and accentless while still keeping it easy and aloof. It’s difficult: it’s been a long time since Remus has been able to practice his conversational Mandarin skills. It seems to work well enough, though, and the strange ghouls straighten at the hard edge in Remus’s tone. They’re wearing worn green uniforms with red bandanas around their arms. Remus has no idea where they got them, but he recognizes them well enough. They straighten even further when Charon joins at Remus’s back.

_“What are you doing here? What are your orders?”_ the ghouls who spoke first demands again, and again Remus ignores them, turning to accept his bag from Charon’s waiting hands. A subtle sign of disrespect, showing the ghouls his back, and they don’t miss it. They shout again, angry, but they’re cautious enough not to step forward into Remus’s space. They mutter between each other, nervous eyes flicking about. Remus does his level best to ignore them. It easy with his helmet on and visor down, but remaining relaxed and seemingly non-pulsed is difficult when he keeps hearing little sounds of scuffling feet. Ferals. From the look in Charon’s eyes, the large ghoul hears it too. When they get close enough to be considered a very real danger- probably drawn by the sound of voices, honestly- Remus lets his head snap in the direction of the noise.

That’s one of the big things that Remus hates about ferals: they might travel in packs, but there’s always a reaper of two that travels silently ahead of the group and gets the jump on any unsuspecting prey. The two Chinese ghouls go down in a tangle of flailing limbs as the thing _drops from the ceiling_ on top of them. One of the assault rifles goes off in a flurry of bright shots that hit nothing but the ceiling, but the noise will draw the ferals here faster. Remus helps one of the Chinese ghouls up while Charon deals with the reaper. The other Chinese ghoul is already dead. The three of them have just enough time to ready their weapons and step back into the doorway before the ferals are pouring into the hall.

Remus takes a knee behind the Chinese ghoul, .44 magnum out and loaded. It only has six shots, but it’s powerful enough to rip right through one feral and well into another. At this point, he’s counting on Charon and the other ghoul to take the aggro for him, because he has a lot less room to maneuver than he’s like, and once one feral gets on him he can pretty much guarantee that others will try. The combat knife on his hip is a comforting weight: now he’s glad that he let Jericho and Moira talk him into carrying it.

One. Two. Remus aims for the knees, smirking when three ferals go down in a single shot. Charon is almost big enough to fill the entire doorway, but the fight has drawn him out a little bit to give the others behind him a margin of error. The Chinese ghoul doesn’t have the best aim, but that’s okay.

Three. Four. Easy-peasy. Charon drops to one knee to reload and Remus rises, aiming for the head over Charon’s shoulder. There’s a good twenty ferals left, but they’re making a good dent. At least the racket doesn’t seem to have attracted any more.

Five. Six. Remus drops again to reload, letting himself get distracted from the fight for the barest moment so he can focus on getting the bullets in without the gun jamming up on him. The tiles above give only the barest second of a warning before they break, dropping a feral reaper right on top of the Wanderer. He goes down in with a strangled cry, one arm braced against the floor, the other trying to keep some space between him and the feral.

“I’m fine!” he shouts when Charon lets out a strangled noise of panic, half-turning and almost getting clawed for it. Remus drops the rest of the way to the floor to reach for his knife, but his rifle strap twists, the heavy gun digging in and getting in his way. So he improvises, beating the ghoul back a bit with the butt of the rifle before unhooking the strap and fumbling for his knife.

Joints, ribs, neck if you can reach- Jericho had been very thorough with Remus’s knife training, and the Wanderer’s knowledge of anatomy only added to it. A feral reaper is a little harder to take down than your average raider, if only because its skin is rather tough and it tends to ignore pain, but it dies just like most things in the Waste if you stab it enough. Remus rolls the body off himself with a bitten-off curse, cutting between the second and third vertebrae just to be certain before drawing his 10mm and helping Charon and the Chinese ghoul to finish off the last of the ferals.

The silence that lingers is almost deafening. Remus swears he can hear the blood pumping through his ears, feel the tattoo of his heartbeat where his fingers dimple the leather grip of his gun. He’s mostly unhurt, thankfully, though Charon is boasting a nasty gash high on his cheekbone and the Chinese ghoul is favoring his left leg over his right. Remus grabs a stimpack from his bag for Charon: to offer the Chinese ghoul any kind of help would be considered an insult. Remus watches as the Chinese ghouls takes the red bandana off his comrade’s arm. There’s a moment of hesitation before the ghoul takes off his own bandana and offers it to Remus. A peace offering. Remus accepts it with a bow of his head.

Then the ghoul is gone, leaving silence in his wake.


	5. The Void

**Chapter 5: The Void**

_ “We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honor him for what he is: each the other’s opposite and complement.” _

_ ~”Narcissus and Goldmund”, Hermann Hesse. _

Amata had always wanted a daughter. Not for any particular reason, really. It’s just that if she had to have a kid (or kids), she reasoned, she wanted at least one daughter. Remus supposed he couldn’t fault her for that. He had no interest in kids. Still doesn’t. But if it would have made Amata happy, Remus and Butch would have given her the world on a platter. 

Measuring distance through a pair of binoculars, Remus wonders how many of these raiders have the same dream. Not many, he supposes, if their first career choice is  _ raider _ . Still, it’s sobering to think that these are people with complex lives and loves. And Remus is about to end them. 

“Mind spotting for me?” Remus asks, passing the binoculars to Charon. The eye strain is starting to give him a headache, and he doesn’t have any pain meds left in his bag. “We’re working back to front, top-down.” 

Charon grunts in acknowledgement, taking a moment to focus the lenses before giving pointers. It’s a bit of a challenge, trying to shoot around the supermutant behemoth caged in the middle of the camp (seriously, who thought that was a good idea?). Thankfully, Remus is a damn good shot, and most of the raiders are so strung out they barely have enough sense to get their heads down when their buddies drop dead beside them. Remus uses about three and a half magazines in the end, or about eighteen bullets: it’s par for the course, but he does wish he could have done better, because rounds for a sniper rifle are expensive and hard to come by. 

Around Evergreen mills, past Tenpenny Tower, towards the marker in the middle of nowhere on Remus’s map. Aside from the raiders and a pack of Talon mercs (Remus would have dealt with Tenpenny a long time ago had it not been for the fact that Talon Company has  _ really _ nice equipment), the most challenging thing Remus and Charon run across is a pack of molerats, fat and slow from bringing down a radstag. It’s almost  _ too  _ easy, Remus thinks as they step into the cool of the garage. Paranoia tightens in his gut when the floor opens to reveal metal stairs and fluorescent lights. 

Being in a Vault has never made Remus so tense. Even when he had gone to retrieve the Stradivarius for Agatha from Vault 92, fighting through ghouls and horrible secrets, Remus’s disgust and fear had been tempered by the familiarity of metal walls and stale air. Something about Vault 112, though, immediately puts Remus on edge. It’s too quiet, too clean, too well-preserved. His skin crawls in the cool air, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Fight or flight kicks in, and all Remus wants to do is run.

He can’t, though. Remus came here to find his dad, and that’s exactly what he plans to do. So, with one hand hovering over his 10mm, Remus descends. 

The med-bay, where Remus checks first, has been used recently, but is ultimately devoid of staff and Dad. There’s a manual open on the desk with notes in the margins. Remus would recognize that handwriting and habit anywhere: there wasn’t a single book in Dad’s collection without his commentary written somewhere between the covers. There had been times when Remus had picked up books just to read his father’s notes, they were so amusing. 

Running a thumb over the familiar heavy-handed lines, Remus wonders how he took any of that for granted: Dad, Amata, Butch, Vault life. He shakes the thought off as quickly as it comes. When he finds his dad, they can set this right. Go home, maybe. Go back to Vault 101 and forget any of this ever happened. It’ll all have been an elaborate Jet trip, a shitty simulation. 

The needle pricks Remus’s arm, and he has to remind himself that this is just a simulation. 

Tranquility Lane reminds Remus quite a bit of Sanctuary Hills. It has the same easy feeling about it, the same artificial happiness that twists Remus’s face into a false smile. It’s smaller, of course, with fewer houses and fewer people. Sanctuary Hills also have a lot fewer sadistic scientists masquerading as little girls. Remus can’t help but compare Braun’s whole set-up to some sick, twisted Pavlovian experiment, with people for dogs and orders for meat powder and head-splitting migraines for ringing bells. 

Thankfully, Tranquility Lane is also like Sanctuary Hills in that it has a failsafe built into the simulation. The song with the items was an aggravating defense mechanism that Remus managed to bypass with minimal cursing and damage to the system. The failsafe itself is an innocent red button on an ominous, hulking gunmetal-grey terminal. Remus knows the side-effect: those unable to disconnect in time will die when the VR pods shut off. All of the former Vault residents will perish. And still he barely hesitates. 

Braun screams and kicks and thrashes as he struggles desperately to hold the simulation together even as it collapses around him. Remus knows that he’s holding a knife to a dying man when he demands to know where his father is, but he’s also certain that Braun is just as desperate to get out as he is. Except Remus has a way out and Braun doesn’t, and Braun just doesn’t know it yet. Remus drags his father out by the scruff and slams the failsafe exit closed behind him, cutting off Braun in the middle of his terrified, distorted scream.

The seal on the pod disengages with a hiss. Remus tears the needle from his arms and pushes his way out before it’s all the way open- a terrible habit that’s going to bite him in the ass one day when the pressure difference fucks up his blood pressure and internal organs, but Remus doesn’t actually give a flying fuck. He stumbles as his feet hit the floor and Charon is there to catch him, all warm hands and warm chest and holy shit, Remus didn’t even realize how cold he was. 

“Remus?” comes a familiar voice, cracked from disuse. Remus feels his heart skip in his chest, wiggles his way out of Charon’s arms and uses the ghoul as support to stand before his father. 

James looks older than Remus remembers. There’s more grey streaking the hair at his temples, more lines around his eyes. Less meat on his bones. But there’s still that same crease between strong brows when they beetle, the same odd shift in his steps from an old injury in his hip. When he speaks, it’s with that familiar, smooth baritone. 

“Remus, what are you doing here?” 

“Rescuing you, you old brick,” Remus says with a half-choked laugh. He staggers a few steps before the world stops spinning again. “Where else would I be?”

“Back in the Vault.  _ Safe _ .” James lets out a huffed sigh, resting his face in his hand. His voice is chastising, condescending. “It’s not safe here. You never should have followed me.” 

A spike of bitterness rises in Remus’s throat. “I didn’t have a choice,” he spits. “You left without saying goodbye, without as much as a note to explain yourself. Fucking hell, Dad, they killed Jonas! What did you expect me to do?!”

“Did you not find my-?”

“Holotape?” Remus finishes for his father. “Yeah, I found it. ‘Sorry, I have to go, don’t know when I’ll be back, good luck’? Really?”

“I only ever wanted you to be safe,” James says with great conviction, and all Remus can manage is a wry smile.

“I’m not a kid any more, Dad.” Remus takes another wobbly step forward, lets James reach out and steady him. “I don’t need you watching my back all the time. I made it this far, didn’t I?” 

Tired. Hopeful. James pulls his son into a one-armed hug, letting Remus’s head rest against his shoulder. It hits Remus then, how  _ worried _ his dad must have been, how much it must have hurt to not have been able to say a proper goodbye, and suddenly he’s not angry anymore. He’s just tired. Tired and happy to have his dad back.

It’s a long but ultimately eventless journey back to Rivet City. Remus and James spend the time catching up on all that’s happened since they left the Vault. Not that there’s much to say on Remus’s part- turns out James has been listening in on Three-Dogs’s announcements, marvelling at the acts of the Lone Wanderer as much as any wastelander. He just never made the connection between the Lone Wanderer and his son. After all, Three-Dogs never mentioned Remus’s name or described him, and he definitely never mentioned any relation between the Lone Wanderer and the doctor from one-oh-one. 

“Yeah, I kind of asked him not to,” Remus says, scratching at the short hairs on the back of his neck. “Didn’t need every asshole on the Wastes with a grudge against me knowing exactly how to find me.” 

James just sighs, shaking his head. In the Jefferson memorial, working with James to get the purifier up and running, Remus can almost forget they were ever apart at all. There’s a lot of odd jobs and little repairs that need to be done to the purifier to ensure it ran correctly, a GECK to be retrieved to top it all off, but Remus can spend his time swapping banter with his dad over the intercoms and that is more than enough for him. Charon lingers at Remus’s side, offering the occasional bit of advice and helping to lift heavy objects, but for the most part he has reverted back to the role of stoic bodyguard. Remus doesn’t mind: there’ll be plenty of time for Charon and james to talk later, sure, when everything calms down a bit. 

There’s still tension between Madison and James, lingering while they work. Remus wishes they would just sit down and talk already, but he knows better than to try and force it. They’d probably just clam up and pretend nothing is wrong just to spite him, and that’s the last thing he wants. Madison is his friends and James is his father, and Remus just wants them to get along is all.

Valves that need to be opened and blown fuses that need to be repaired- simple things that Remus could probably do in his sleep, honestly. And it’s not that he wastes time doing them, but he definitely doesn’t half-ass it. He can’t afford to, not knowing what’s at stake: if they can pull this off, the Capital Wastes will never have to worry about water ever again. That’s more than enough incentive for Remus to check everything twice. 

He and Charon are down in the tunnels changing a fuse when they hear it- vetibird blades beating at the air, practically an armada approaching the Jefferson memorial. Remus turns to scramble up the rust and the steel, cursing and slipping until Charon gets up behind him and gives him a boost. They cling to each other as the memorial trembles, the air humming with electricity and the taste of iron. A pulse field. Enclave. Remus breaks into a sprint down the hallway. He counts the seconds it takes to get to his locker, to get into his gear and to rush into the purifier room.  _ Too long _ , he thinks when he sees James and a small group of scientists standing inside the purifier with General Autumn and a few power-armored soldiers. Madison is standing at the door controls, another Enclave soldier with a gun to his head. 

If the Wastelands have taught Remus anything, it’s that the first rule in a fight is always “kill or be killed”, followed closely by “do not hurt civilians”. The Enclave soldier is clearly not a civilian. Remus slips a knife in the joint of their helmet and backplate, moving out of the way to let them fall back down the steps. General Autumn meets Remus’s eyes through the glass; there’s nothing Remus can do about the scene playing out in the purifier, and they both know it. 

One of the scientists goes down when James doesn’t obey, a plasma round eating away his face. Remus screams, struggling against the arm Charon loops around his waist. His nails scrape against the glass for but a moment before he is torn away. There’s nothing he can do, and the knowledge sits heavily in Remus’s chest. James meets his son’s eyes with a quiet kind of certainty. 

The air burns. Radiation floods the chamber, sending Remus’s Geiger counter ticking. Charon’s grip is firm, but Remus is slippery and quick. James’s skin burns from the radiation, angry red patches that spread across his skin like wildfire. Remus presses his hands against the glass as though he can reach through and save his father. There’s nothing he can do, and the helpless feeling coils around Remus’s throat, choking off his air. 

“Run,” James orders. Even as Remus struggles, Charon pulls him away.

Their flight through the tunnels takes them around a number of Enclave defenses. Not that Remus has any say in it. As he is, he’s practically useless as a leader. He follows commands, aims and shoots, but his mind is back with his father in the purifier. When they finally reach the surface, Remus leaves Madison and the scientists in the Brotherhood’s capable hands. Elder Lyons offers him a place to stay, but Remus turns it away. He’ll be back, he promises. He just needs… he needs…

He needs to go home. 

Remus doesn’t tell anyone he’s returned. He keeps the hood of his coat up, his head down. Takes the back way to his house. Avoids people as much as possible. He’s not sure he could stand to speak with Jericho in the state he’s in, Moira even less. Instead, he curls himself into a ball on his bed and stares at the wall. He thinks about Dad, about Amata and Butch. About Vault 101 and happier times and everything he’s left behind. 

He didn’t cry when Benji died. He didn’t cry when he found Jonas dead. He didn’t cry when he left the Vault. But Remus cries now, for Benji and Jonas and his father. For everyone he left behind and everyone he couldn’t save. Remus cries until he’s exhausted, until there’s nothing left of him but the emptiness. He wonders if this is what it’s like to embrace the void- he’s certainly stared into it long enough for it to have seen the very worst parts of his soul. 

Wadsworth brings him food in the morning- mac and cheese and molerat meat, made so carefully that the cheese doesn’t even taste stale and the molerat isn’t chewy. The robot brings Remus books and water and even one of the teddy bears Remus keeps crammed in one of the lockers downstairs. Anything to make him happy, because seeing Remus this sad must make him hurt at some instinctual level that only Mr. Handys have. Remus smiles and assures Wadsworth that he’s fine. He’s not, of course, because it feels like there’s a huge hole in his chest. It’s the kind of large, ragged wound that no amount of stimpacks or time will be able to heal, and all Remus can do is try to cover it up with a forced smile and pretty words.

They say Vault 87 is a deathtrap.

Remus smiles, all sharp teeth and lightless eyes, and says, “Great.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have Fallout 4, so it might be a bit between this update and the next. Not longer than a week, I think- enough for me to get Fallout 4 out of my system. I'll see you guys then :)


	6. Revelations

" _Oh for shame, how the mortals put the blame on us gods, for they say evils come from us, but it is they, rather, who by their own recklessness win sorrow beyond what is given..."_

_~"The Odyssey", Homer._

One of the first things that Remus did when he first brought Charon to his home in Megaton was craft something to safely hold the ghoul’s contract. The thought of Charon’s livelihood being tied to such a vulnerable piece of paper made Remus’s hands shake with anxiety. Too many things could go wrong; what if it got wet? Or was caught in a fire? Or was in Remus’s bag and he lost it? And even if it survived all of that, what happened when time inevitably degraded the paper to dust.

It took Remus a couple dozen tries to come up with something that he liked. The result was basically a vacuum tube, as long as Remus’s pinky finger. Charon’s contract was carefully folded until it fit, and the tube was sealed. The tube was waterproof, fireproof (to a point, everything gives under heat eventually), and small enough to be worn next to the holotags Paladin Hoss had crafted for Remus. He showed it to Charon the moment he was done, as if such a simple thing could ease both of their minds.

“ _ You’re not my slave,” Remus said, tucking the contract back under his shirt. The metal was cold against his bare skin. “Still, it’s nice to know that you won’t accidentally become someone else’s, right?” _

Poking around Little Lamplight, Remus can’t help but think about others who might take care of Charon when Remus is gone. Willow is the first name that comes to mind, but Remus’s isn’t sure that Charon would want to go back to Underworld after everything that’s happened to him there. Moira would make a good keeper- honestly, she’d probably forget that Charon’s contract exists entirely and treat him like a normal person. Remus’s last choice of confidants would be Sentinal Lyons, because though the woman is honorable and kind, she’s still a soldier at heart. Still, it’s nice to know he has options that (probably) won’t fail him. The best possible solution, of course, would just be to give Charon the contract, but Remus doesn’t know if that’s even possible, and he hesitates to bring it up with Charon; with all that’s happened recently, he knows exactly how that will come across. 

Mayor Maccready makes Remus laugh on the inside. On the outside, he just grins and antagonizes the kid right back. There’s no hard feeling, thankfully, especially after Lucy asks for some Buffout and Remus pulls about twenty out of his bag and another ten out of Charon’s. “He’s a bit of a hoarder,” Charon jokes when Maccready just stares, jaw on the floor. They’re just a bunch of kids trying to get by, just like Remus was when he stepped out of the Vault. He hopes they grow up to be better adjusted than he is. 

It hits Remus when they hack into the reactor room that he’s not a kid anymore. Well, he hasn’t been a kid for years, really, but he’s not even a  _ teen  _ anymore. His Pip-boy reads August 23rd when he disconnects from the terminal- three days after his birthday. It startles a laugh out of him that he shakes off when Charon gives him an odd look. Twenty years old. Huh.

Vault 87 feels like any other place on the Wastes: foreign, gross, and full of supermutants. It’s where the supermutants have been…  _ breeding _ , that might be the best word if it. Making more supermutants using the FEV. Remus didn’t even think it was possible until he saw the people strapped to the table. He lets those that didn’t seem to be infected free, but those that are already too far gone… A mercy kill is the best Remus can do for them. 

The GECK is guarded by enough radiation to make Charon not want to go down there. Remus takes three steps down the hallway before even his twisted DNA wants to crawl away as fast as it can. He sits against the wall willing his stomach to stay down as Charon starts him a Rad-Away drip. He would only have a few minutes in there to get the GECK before his radiation level passes the point of no return, and he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. Anxiety spikes in his chest: if he doesn’t get it right the first time, Charon might get hurt trying to fix Remus’s mistake. 

“We’ll find another way,” Charon soothes, smoothing Remus’s hair back from his face. Remus tries to focus on his breathing, to calm himself before he begins to panic. Charon is right. There has to be another way. 

Fawkes is the “other way”. Radiation doesn’t affect supermutants like it affects normal people. He can just walk and grab the GECK and come right back. And he does, just like he promised. Remus could not thank him enough when the supermutant placed the briefcase in his hands. To think the fate of the Wasteland rests in such a seemingly innocent thing. Remus straps it between his sniper rifle and his back, trusting that it will be safe there. 

The clink of metal on metal on the floor makes Remus freeze up like a startled sheep. He feels Charon react before he does, putting bulk between Remus and the grenade. They both realize too late that it’s a concussion grenade, not a fragmentation grenade. It sends them both to the ground, ears ringing and eyes blinded by the flash. For a moment, Remus can see the bottom hem of a familiar coat. Then metal-gloved hands pull him from beneath Charon and something knocks him in the back of his head. 

Pain. Nausea. The thrum of vetibird blades. The murmur of metallic voices. Remus’s head is in the clouds and his heart is in his stomach. He’s failed them. He’s  _ failed _ . 

Pain. Nausea. It’s a cage of metal and electricity. Remus struggles against it as well as his body allows. It hurts: he’s not afraid to let those Enclave bastards know that it  _ hurts _ . He struggles and he screams as the electricity leaves horrible raised red patches over his skin. Time loses meaning. There is little water, no meals. General Autumn questions him, taunts him. Remus laughs and struggles and screams against the pain. 

The electric field goes down. Remus reaches out, batting at air as though he’s expecting it to still be there. When it’s not, he grins. The Enclave are stupid to leave his stuff easily within reach when he gets out. Hei-Gui, weapons, some of his gear- all of his stimpacks are gone, and his anxiety medication, and his food, but his ammo and his drugs are still there. They assume him too weak to fight back. Sticking a Psycho needle into the crook of his elbow, Remus smirks. Their first and last mistake, underestimating him. With the weight he’s lost, the Psycho hits him like a suckerpunch to the face, like a rush of energy straight into his veins. His Pip-Boy informs him that his heart rate is above acceptable parameters. Remus ignores it. 

They weren’t expecting him to fight back. They weren’t expecting the shadows of the bunker to rise up against them, silent death by sharp knives. Remus is ruthless: he leaves nothing but bodies and broken machinery in his wake. The Enclave panics as fires crop up around the bunker, as wires short out and pipes suddenly burst. In the chaos, what is one missing prisoner, a few dead soldiers and scientists?

President Eden is both nothing Remus expected and everything Remus expected. A computer, an A.I., building its worldview from the base of a racist, xenophobic culture. Remus takes the “cure” President Eden offers, destroys him like he asks. The moment he’s clear, though, he hurls the vial against the wall and revels in the sound of smashing glass. Fuck him, and fuck the Enclave. They can burn in their so-called “purity” for all he cares. 

They have angered the dragon, and it is not merciful. 

Remus does not remember stumbling out of Raven Rock, the bunker burning out behind him. He doesn’t remember collapsing into Charon’s arms, body too battered and worn to hold him up any longer. He doesn’t remember the long walk back to Megaton, joined by an honor-guard of Brotherhood Knights halfway back. He doesn’t remember wrinkled but gentle hands easing him out of the Hei-Gui and onto the bloodstained couch beneath the stairs. 

He does, however, remember dreaming. He remembers seeing his father and a woman he can only assume to be his mother, sitting together beside the purifier. James looks younger than the last time Remus saw him. There’s a baby between the two that Remus can only assume is himself. They’re smiling. They’re  _ happy _ .

The scene changes. Moira and Jericho are sharing a cup of coffee against the bar in the Craterside Supply. They’re celebrating the release of the second edition of the Wasteland Survival Guide. Remus forgot he had finished the chapter before he left for Vault 87. 

The scene changes. Butchie and Amata, books open in their laps. They’re trying to find baby names in their favorite novels. Remus remembers most of the ones they have open- he suggested them, after all. Amata seems to like the name “Lili”. Butch likes “Cass” (“A nice, strong name”). Remus always liked the name “Karen”.

_ “What are you doing here, Remus?” Amata asks, smiling with a worn copy of The Princess Bride in her lap. It’s how Remus knows it’s a dream- he took that copy with him when he left. She shoos him towards the door. “You can’t be away too long. They’re waiting for you!” _

_ “Yeah,” Butch encourages, grinning. “Get out there, Nosebleed. You ain’t done yet.” _

Remus wakes all in a moment. His eyes blink open to the bottom of the stairs, quietly. Every inch of his body seems to ache. A bullet must have passed through the meat of his upper thigh, another scraping across his shoulder. He reaches up just to feel the casing of Charon’s contract cut against his palm. A shadow passes over the light; Remus tries to push himself up onto his elbows only to drop back with a huffed groan.

“Well, hey,” Remus says, smiling like it doesn’t hurt him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. And sore, well, everything. Enclave Pre-War interrogation techniques and whatnot.”

Charon’s face creases with concern. Remus makes grabby hands towards the ghoul, pulling him down beside the couch and easily within reach. They can talk this way, and that’s what Remus needs- to talk. To ramble. To tell Charon all about the Vault and Dad and… and… 

And he can barely keep his eyes open. Remus drifts off every now and then, startling himself awake again before he falls too far. He doesn’t want to sleep. If he sleeps, he knows he’s going to see James again, see Amata and Butch, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to want to wake up. Babbling is the only way he can stay awake, so he talks and talks and talks until the morning comes. 

Paladin Hoss greets them at Megaton’s gates, smiling in his worn but polished power armor. He looks better than when Remus last saw him. Healthier. Less stressed. He’s abandoned his helmet somewhere. His laser rifle has seen better days. 

The journey back to the Citadel is slow going. Remus knows they need to hurry, that the Enclave might have a day and vetibirds on them, but Remus can’t make himself go any faster. His legs feel like spagetti, his lungs like they can’t expand properly in the cold, humid air. Charon pretends to limp- pretends, because Remus knows the ghoul’s not hurt. He’s grateful, though. Remus hates to admit it, but he just can’t push himself any further. 

“You need a suit of power armor,” Sarah says, leaning over a map of the D.C. ruins. Remus cocks an eyebrow where he leans against the wall- he has power armor training, sure, but he can’t sneak worth a shit in it. And he needs to be able to sneak. He needs to be able to get up close and personal with the Enclave soldiers. He wants to feel it when they die. Charon backs Sarah up, but Remus makes a compelling argument- he’s safest out of sight and out of mind. They give. 

Remus’s knife is a special piece that Jericho got him not long into travelling together- longer than a normal blade, hooked at the end and curved just enough to give it a nice slice. Not any good for stabbing, but that’s not what Remus needs it for. The Enclave, for all their technology, is too enamoured with the aesthetic to get rid of the one major flaw in their armor: the vulnerable rubber fabric of the back of the neck. In the evening, with shadows stretching across the concrete, there’s not enough sunlight to make Remus’s stealth field shimmer. The Enclave soldiers don’t even see him coming. 

General Autumn doesn’t see him coming. Remus takes the plasma pistol off the man’s body, weighing it in his hands. It’s a beautiful weapon.  _ Augustus Autumn  _ is engraved into the butt, but that’s not anything a little acid can’t scour off. Remus won’t use it very often, but he’ll definitely keep it: it’s not the kind of weapon you leave for the scavengers to find.

The purifier was never ready to work in the first place, and the Enclave definitely didn’t have engineers on the level of this technology. It’s fitting, Remus thinks, that Father and Son will die in the same fashion. Mirrors of each other, in the end, just trying to make the world a better place. 

_ Revelation 21:6- I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end _

_ I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life, freely. _

(Sarah is outside the glass, screaming, Charon’s contract in her grip. Remus wants to tell her that it’ll be okay, that  _ he’s _ okay, but he barely has enough breath for this.)

_ But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death _ .

(Remus knows he hasn’t been the best person in his life. He knows he’s made mistakes, ones that he’s not entirely ashamed of. He won’t ask forgiveness for them. But Charon- Charon was Remus’s revelation. Charon made Remus _want_ _to be good_.)

“I love you, Charon,” Remus says around the lump in his throat. “It’s going to be okay. I love you and it’s going to be okay. I’m…” He’s crying. It burns his skin in painful tracks, but that’s okay. It’ll all be over soon. “I’m going to see Dad. And we’ll be alright.”

Every bare patch of Remus’s skin burns. The radiation steals the air from his lungs, steals the strength from his limbs. Still, he presses himself against the glass like he can feel Charon’s warmth.  _ This is the end _ , he thinks solemnly. 

There’s a flash of light, and Remus thinks of all the things he’s left unfinished. He thinks of Harkness, of Moira, of Jericho and Bryan Wilks and Amata and Butch. He thinks of Megaton and Rivet City and Vault 101. He thinks of happy things. That’s how he wants to go out- knowing that there were happy things in the world, and that he got to experience them. He thinks of Charon, and he thinks… He thinks...

He’s not ready.


	7. Chapter 7

“C’mon, son. Wake up.”

Remus grumbles, turning over and pulling the pillow over his head. So he might have been up late last night trying to figure out why the Miss Nanny he's been working on, Be-Mo, isn’t working and he might have not fallen asleep until the clock read about three in the morning. Waking up at seven would have sucked even if he hadn’t, though, so he grumbles under his breath and tries to go back to sleep with his dad poking at his ribs.

“If you wake up now, you can work on Be-Mo a bit before you have to go take your test, and then I’ll let you work on her the rest of the day. Fair?”

There’s a smirk on James’s face when Remus turns over. Remus is being baited, he knows that. But he’s still young without fully-developed impulse control, and the bait looks pretty damn tempting. So he sits up, pouting as he runs a hand through his hair. It’s short and thick enough to stand up in rowdy spikes. James huffs a laugh at the sight.

“See,” James says. “Was that so hard?” Remus gives him the blandest look he can muster, stumbling past his dad towards the bathroom. “I want you ready and out the door in thirty minutes, okay!”

The impulse to flip his father off is very strong. Instead, Remus focuses on brushing his teeth, getting every snagglefang and shovelled incisor. Mongoloid skeleton heritage, according to anatomy textbooks, along with round eyes and the shape of his femurs. There are probably other weird quirks that give his heritage away, ones that don’t require flaying him down to the bone, but Remus thinks that it’s comforting to know that even if he’s been dead long enough to have decomposed that far, at least someone with some knowledge of forensic anatomy will be able to say, “Yep, this person was of either East Asian or Native American descent!”

Remus laughs a bit to himself as he zips up his vaultsuit. He doubts his body would be hidden long enough in the Vault for it to get to the point of bare bones. Still, that would be pretty cool. Maybe they’d donate his body to science of something. Articulate his joints, let him hang from a hook in the classroom and scare little kids. Heh.

Butch and Amata are waiting in front of the clinic when Remus gets there. They’re arguing over something- a dumb trick Butch pulled that landed him in the clinic. Accident in the boiler room. Most of the damage is covered by his vaultsuit and jacket, but Remus can see a bit of blotchy red peeking up over Butch’s shoulder. It probably hurts like hell. Remus’ll grab him some painkillers after the test.

“That was a pretty dumb stunt, Butchie,” Remus points out, meandering up to Amata’s side. He shoots her a lopsided grin.

“You can shut your mouth, Nosebleed,” Butch snaps back, his glare and sharp words softened by the smile pulling at his lips. “What are you even doing here anyway? Everyone in the Vault knows what the answer to your test is going to be. ‘Medical Technician’, just like your Da.”

“Who knows. Maybe he’ll get ‘hairdresser’ or something,” Amata teases. Butch’s glare turns on her just as fast, and he looks honestly offended.

“I ain’t no hairdresser,” he mutters as they enter the classroom. “I’m a barber. Get it right.”

Tests have always been the bane of Remus’s existence. Not that he’s bad at them: he has the best marks in his class, followed closely by Amata and Butch because he refuses to let them not study for anything. Actually, the fact that Remus already knows most of the material is the root of the problem, because he gets done so quickly, and then what is he supposed to do? Stare at the ceiling? Try to make his pencil more than a straight line of wood and graphite? Multiple choice tests are the worst, because he can’t even doodle in the margins on a scansheet. Not that Mr. Brotch appreciates him doodling in the margins of any test, but Remus likes to have that option.

At least the Generalized Occupational Test has some room for amusement: Remus uses the extra lines provided to some up with increasingly incredible but no less possible answers to every question. He’s not even sure a laser pistol will stay stable if you put a set of reflectors on it to turn it into a laser cutter, but the math says it’s possible, so Remus shrugs and puts it down. Butch was right, though, in that everyone already knows what Remus’s answer is going to be, because none of the other kids have shown any interest in medicine and that’s definitely the kind of field where you don’t want someone who’s going to half-ass it.

“Well, Butch,” Remus hears Mr. Brotch say with unbridled sarcastic enthusiasm, “I didn’t think you had it in you. Hairdresser! Just your kind of profession, don’t you think?!”

Remus and Amata share a look of sheer disbelief and amazement before they lose control of their laughter. By the time Butch finds them, they’ve dissolved into hysterical giggles, clinging to each other against the cool steel walls. After a moment of disapproving glaring, Butch snorts and laughs with them.

...

Remus blinks his eyes open to the cracked and faded tiles of the Citadel’s infirmary. There’s a fluid bag and Rad-Away drip hooked to his arm where his Pip-Boy should be. The heart monitor informs him that his heart-rate is a stable eighty over sixty. He feels a little cold. The blankets, though heavy and warming, are scratchy. There are rough hands cradling one of his, fingers pressed into his pulse point. Charon. Remus’s throat has to work a few times before he can croak the ghoul’s name out.

The next few hours are a dizzying, exhausting flurry of people and hands and voices and medication. Someone hands him a can of purified water. Another hands him a mirror. The radiation has scarred two pale tear-tracks onto his face, and, combined with the sick pallor of Remus’s skin, it makes him look like some lingering ghost, some tortured spirit that should linger no longer. Charon runs a thumb along one solemnly when Remus tells him that.

They call him Knight, one of the Lyons Pride. They call him Savior of the Wasteland, the Last, Best Hope of Humanity. Remus certainly doesn’t feel like any of those things. Two weeks have done a number on his already fragile physical state, leaving him too weak to take more than a few steps without help, too frail to even consider traversing the wasteland until he recovers more. Any other time, Remus would be aggravated with his own weakness, but in the moment he doesn’t have the energy to be anything more than empty and tired. His near-death experience has taken a heavy toll on his mental state, the doctors say, and Remus can feel that too. More than the minimum amount of stimuli exhausts him, and there are days when he can’t even eat with the other Paladins and Knights. There are days when even the sound of his own breathing grates his nerves.

Charon quickly becomes Remus’s lifeline. The ghoul is unusually good at reading Remus’s nerves, at knowing when the Wanderer is well enough for visitors and when everyone needs to leave. He’s good at noticing when Remus is feeling down and at finding things that make Remus feel better. Physical therapy is more bearable with Charon there. Meals don’t taste as bland. Silence isn’t as frightening.

“Let’s go home,” Remus says, walking beside Charon beyond the gates of the Citadel. It’s a clear winter’s day, the clouds hanging in a fluffy ring around the horizon.Maybe it’ll keep getting colder. Maybe there will be snow come December. Maybe they’ll have a white Christmas. That would be nice.

It’s a long walk to Megaton, but Remus and Charon don’t rush. There’s no point, as far as Remus sees, except maybe to ensure their supplies don’t run out. The Brotherhood has given them more than enough, though. So Remus takes it as an opportunity to slow down and really _look_ at the world around him. It’s a wasteland, sure, but if he looks carefully he can see little bits of green grass between the brown. There’s winter flowers like alyssum blooming against a crumbling concrete building. There’s life among the ruins and the rust, if only he bothers to look, and it’s beautiful.

Charon smiles when Remus childishly shows him where a white hibiscus is growing and flowering at the base of a burnt-out tree, and Remus wonders how he ever thought he could leave this behind.

…

It’s early March when Remus gets kicked out of Vault 101.

Amata wakes him early in the morning with hurried hands and wide eyes. She shoves a 10mm and a box of ammo in his hands and tells him his dad is gone and the Overseer has turned against him. She tells him that he has to leave. They both agree that he has no other choice.

“I’m going to try and talk to my father,” Amata promises, hands firm on Remus’s shoulders. “I don’t know if it will work, though. In the meantime, you _have_ to get to his office.” Her eyes fall on the pistol she’s given him and she hesitates.

“I won’t use it unless I have to,” Remus assures. And not just because a 10mm can kill- he doesn’t have enough ammo to use it against every radroach and asshole in his way. He has a BB-gun and a baseball bat, and even those are weapons of last resort when he can just sneak around them.

Ms. DeLoria might not be the nicest person, but she certainly doesn’t deserve to die to a couple of shitty radroaches because security can’t be bothered to help her. It’s four bullets and a stimpack well used. Remus notes that there are significantly fewer bottles lying around the room than there were the last time he was here; either Butch has cleaned up, or Ms. DeLoria really is doing better.

It’s disheartening, to realize the gravity of what’s happening. The weight falls on Remus’s shoulders with Butch’s Tunnel Snake jacket- Dad is missing, the Vault has turned against him, and Remus is going to be banished from his home. He hugs Butch as tightly as possible, tucks his face into the crook of the greaser’s neck. If they never see each other again, Remus intends to remember only the good times.

“I’m gonna miss you, nosebleed,” Butch murmurs into Remus’s hair. Remus nods, sniffs back tears. “But you’re gonna be fine out there, ya hear? You’re gonna find your dad, and you’re gonna haul your skinny ass back here. And then we’re gonna eat some cake, and you’re going to tell us all about it.”

Remus doesn’t remember too much of what happened after that. He remembers a lot of shouting as he reaches the interrogation rooms. He remembers pulling Amata from Officer Mack’s grip. He remembers a gun in his face. He remembers what James told him the day he got his BB-rifle. “ _Squeeze the trigger, son. Don’t pull_.”

It’s the most valuable advice anyone in the vault will have ever given Remus. He wipes the blood off his cheek with his sleeve, horrified. What a sight he must make, Remus, spattered in the blood of his enemies like some kind of supervillain. The other security guards drop their weapons quickly. Overseer Almodovar spits and sneers as Remus mechanically goes through the motions of changing into one of the armored vaultsuits in the locker; Remus refuses to face Amata again in the state that he’s in. He’ll have to tell her, sure, and it’s better that she hear it from his lips. But she doesn’t need to see that mess.

Jonas is dead. Dad’s holotape is left on the desk. Remus picks it up and tucks it into his pocket to listen to later. He’s not entirely sure that he’ll be able to keep it together if he listens to it now. The door to the Overseer’s office is easy to pick, the terminal easy to hack. Amata meets him at the Vault door.

“You did what you had to do,” Amata says, hugging Remus so tightly he can swear he feels his bones creak. She releases him and holds him at arm’s length, brushing a bit of hair out of his face. “Good luck out there.”

The Vault door rumbles open, gears grinding and seals hissing. Remus wonders how his father felt, standing in the cave with his past behind him and his future before him. Because Remus is terrified. It takes him a few moments after Amata has closed to door to make his legs move, turn his eyes away from the “101” emblazoned on the steel.

The sunlight is so terribly bright.

…

Kissing Charon feels like jumping off a cliff and trusting the air to catch him. It’s terrifying. Remus is so terrified that he’s going to fuck it up, fuck this up, that this is going to change their relationship for the worst and that everything is going to fall apart. But then Charon kisses him again, and again, touches him like he’s something precious, and Remus _trusts_. They’re on the couch, so there’s not much room to maneuver. Charon is inexperienced and Remus has no idea what he’s supposed to do with a ghoul.

But despite all of that, somehow it’s perfect. Remus _trusts_ , and Charon takes him and cradles him in warmth and protection. Charon takes Remus’s trust and holds it like he has never held anything more valuable. It’s terrifying. It’s liberating.

It’s a quiet moment when it’s all said and done, Remus curled around Charon on the tiny bed in Remus’s room. It’s being able to sleep properly for the first time in weeks with Charon’s heartbeat under his ear and hand in his hair. It’s closure.

It’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this brings us to the end of "Here on the Edge of Night", and therefore will be the end of this story. I have more Remus stuff planned for the future, I promise. Lots of Remus stuff. Stuff that might involve the Railroad. And the Commonwealth, eventually, idk. We'll get to that when we get there. All I'm saying is that you don't have to worry, because Remus is far from done.


End file.
